


Madelaine

by Pythia (Mythichistorian)



Category: Tales of the Gold Monkey
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythichistorian/pseuds/Pythia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in the islands is never quite what it seems. And even the most domestic of situations can conceal unexpected secrets ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of _Tales of the Gold Monkey_ trademarks or copyrights.

_I once heard it said that nobody has natural luck - it’s a talent you work hard to earn and even harder to keep. I’m never entirely sure. I’ve known folk who seem to land on their feet no matter where they fall from, and others who’d have to climb mountains to pick up a dime when they missed the dollar lying under their nose. I guess that some people were handed more than their fair share back in the days when Lady Fortune was distributing her favours. For all that, having luck is no good if you don’t make use of it, just as bad luck is only as bad as you let it be. For those not privy to the Lady’s blessings, hard work and determined effort can make up for a lot. Exchanging that for the blind hope of snatching just a little more fortune from someone else’s hands is the kind of blind leap that I’d never want to take. They say that love is blind. I’d wager desperation or self-delusion are more likely culprits. Even the wisest can be fooled by those intent on deceiving them, and the consequences of such bedazzled decisions can be tragic both for the victim of the deception and for those unwittingly drawn into its snares. Only when some of those involved have the luck of the devil in rolling the dice of life can you be certain of a chance in such a game - and Lady Luck can be fickle, even with those she loves ..._

* * *

It was a hot midday early in the year when Jake Cutter first met Madelaine Belvoir. She arrived in a batter motor launch manned by several stalwart native types and she drew attention in the way that any woman blessed with her personal attributes might. She was a small figure with a compactly built, almost top-heavy, frame. She stood barely over five feet, and her dark blonde hair tumbled lazily around her sun darkened face. She wore a light cotton dress in a pale blue and yellow that clung to every curve of her, and it was topped by a sweep of straw hat that dangled ribbons down the length of her back. Even that failed to conceal the determined lines of her face; she addressed the native boatmen with an authoritative voice that carried across to where Cutter sat cleaning the intake valve his mechanic had thrust into his hands half an hour before. He looked up, finding the woman staring back in his direction, no doubt intrigued by the unfamiliar lines of his seaplane bobbing in the water behind him. She was not a fresh-faced innocent but a woman in full bloom, her eyes including the leisurely slump of the blond American in her assessment. He smiled disarmingly and she coloured a little and turned away, making her way up the quay and across the square before disappearing into the waiting coolness of the Monkey Bar,.

Cutter was sufficiently intrigued to thrust the oily valve down on the workbench, wipe his hands on a handy rag, and stride after her, leaving his engrossed mechanic with a promise of his return. Corky grunted after him non-committally, but Jack got to his feet and pattered after his master, two eyes glittering in the sunlight.

Inside the shelter of the hotel, the woman had removed the overshadowing hat, revealing a face that, while not classically beautiful, was certainly possessed of character. There was the hint of laughter lines around her eyes, and her mouth curved up in a warm smile as she talked quietly to the man who had wheeled to meet her. Gushie had an equally amenable grin on his face; he was nodding enthusiastically as the pilot entered.

" ... but he’ll be out any minute, I should think," the hotel’s major domo was saying brightly. "You’re a day or two late - he was expecting you for the weekend."

"I was delayed by mechanical problems," she answered, sinking into a nearby chair and fanning herself with her hat. She had a faint but definite accent, a hint of provincial French beneath the careful English words. "You know how these things are."

"Yeah. Iced tea?"

She flipped the edge of the hat at the man with a hint of exasperation. "Away with you," she ordered, an amused note in her voice. "It is iced soda and white wine, and you know it very well. Short on the soda, long on the wine," she called after him as he grinned and wheeled toward the bar. She dropped the hat onto the nearby table and leant back, only to sit upright again as she registered that she had further company. "Oh - bonjour, mons." Her eyes narrowed as she considered his face, and then she smiled. "You are the man by the plane, n’est ce pas?"

He grinned. "I am the man with the plane," he corrected. "Jake Cutter - pilot and owner of the _Goose_ at your service, m’am. Oh," he added, as four paws clattered to a halt at his feet, "and that’s Jack. He’s with me."

She giggled, extending her hand to lightly brush the dog’s nose. "How do you do, Jack," she said. "I am ..."

"Madelaine!" Bon Chance Louie’s voice cut through their conversation, followed almost immediately by the man himself, his arms wide in welcome, a broad smile on his face and clear delight in his eyes. The woman practically leapt from the chair and threw herself at him in French abandon, planting a deliberate kiss on both cheeks as she greeted him with a hug.

"Louie," she laughed, holding him out at arms’ length and giving him a look of consideration. " _You are looking well_ ,"she added in French.

" _The same could be said of you_ ," he returned in the same tongue.

She dismissed this thought with a wave of her hand. " _I am burned to a cinder in the sun_ ," she declaimed, turning back to reclaim her chair.

" _On you, it looks good_ ," he decided warmly, then smiled at Cutter’s expectant expression. "Jake, mon ami. Have you met Madelaine?"

The pilot laughed. "I was in the middle of doing so," he explained, "but we haven’t had a formal introduction."

"Then allow me," the Frenchman decided, waving his hand towards the woman with a flourish. "May I present Madame Madelaine Belvoir, one of the Marivella’s more attractive assets."

"Louie," she protested, picking up her hat and waving it at him with the same friendly exasperation she had shared with Gushie. "He flatters me, Monsieur. For a hard-working woman with two daughters to raise, I do as well as I can, but I am scarcely one of the sights of the islands."

Bon Chance threw her a look that more than contradicted this self-assessment. Cutter had to agree with him. She was not devastatingly attractive, but she exuded a determination and spirit that more than made up for the less than classic build of her face. It was a square, well-shaped face, no ethereal elegance but an honest statement of down-to-earth experience. Gushie reappeared, his tray bearing two glasses of the promised wine and soda, and a bottle of beer which he handed to the pilot as he passed.

"You look like you needed one," he explained. Cutter was briefly bemused and Bon Chance laughed softly.

"We had not got that far yet," he admonished. "We are only at the introduction stage."

"Oh." Gushie glanced from one man to the other and then winked at the woman in between them. "You mean you haven’t mentioned being her sleeping partner yet?"

Cutter, who had just lifted the bottle to his lips, gagged and choked on the mouthful of beer. "You what?" he gasped, staring at the three of them as if he’d not believed what he’d just heard. Madelaine burst into a peal of laughter.

"Gushie," she chided, flapping her hand at him in further exasperation. "You could have put that a little better, n’est ce pas? Whatever will Monsieur Cutter think? Bon Chance is my business partner, not - well," she coloured a little. "Our relationship has a firm financial foundation."

"Very firm," Bon Chance agreed, a hint of mischief glittering in his eyes. "30% profit last year - I hope we do as well in this one."

"We will," she stated with decision. "Provided I get the approval on my expenditures?"

"Equipment, land clearing, or workforce?" he shot back, lifting the second glass from Gushie’s tray and settling into the chair beside her.

She looked vaguely hurt. "We cleared another twenty acres last month," she said. "That doesn’t cost anything - planting it does. I need another five men, and at least two more steam boilers for what they harvest." She leant forward with conspiratorial glee. "Singapore agreed our deliveries. 15 francs above their final price."

The Frenchman looked impressed. "15? Madelaine, you work magic." He glanced across at the bemused American and adopted an apologetic look. "Jake, mon ami, we are going to bore you to tears - let us get our business out of the way, and then you can make Madelaine’s acquaintance without fear of figures or contracts."

Cutter grinned easily. "Sure," he said, draining the rest of the beer. "I got work to do, in any case. I’ll catch you both later." He dropped the bottle back on Gushie’s tray and strode out back into the sunshine. He was a little surprised to find that the owner of the wheelchair had followed him.

"I'm sorry," Gushie apologised wryly. "I couldn't resist the joke. There aren't that many people I can aim it at. They really are just business partners."

"Just?" the pilot questioned, glancing back through the swing doors. Madelaine Belvoir had risen to her feet and was following Bon Chance towards the inner stairs. He had picked up the bag she had carried in, and they conversed in an amused French that did not carry sufficiently to be recognisable.

"Yeah," his companion affirmed. "Just. Madelaine was widowed three years ago. She adored her husband, and went to pieces when he died. Louie pulled her out of the financial hole that nearly swallowed her and they’ve been partners ever since. And as far as I can figure it, that’s all they’ve ever been. She brings the books over every couple of months, he visits her place on Mahoi once a quarter. She runs everything, manages it all, and he keeps an eye on the finance and takes a cut of the profits." He grinned wryly. "Nice arrangement if you can find it, huh?"

Cutter looked down at him, his face creased in thought. "Mahoi’s that island with the fruit plantation, right? Cannery and everything?"

"That’s the place. Paul Belvoir built it up out of nothing, twelve years ago. The bank tried to foreclose, two days after they picked him out of a steam steriliser. Poor guy," Gushie sighed. "Just a stupid accident, really. Left Madelaine alone with two daughters and an entire island’s economy to support. I don’t wonder she nearly went to pieces. Louie was over there, sorting out the paperwork with regard to the death. Messy business, you know? He threw the bank vultures off the island and offered her his backing instead. Knew a good thing when he saw it, I suppose."

Cutter laughed softly. "He’s pretty shrewd when he needs to be. Not averse to helping the odd damsel in distress, either. It’s strictly business where she’s concerned?"

"100 percent. She loved her husband very much; reveres his memory. They’ve been partners for over three years now and all they ever do together is tally figures. I guess he put business first for once, and left it there. She’s okay, is Madelaine. Nice lady. He wouldn’t see her hurt for all the world."

"I can see why. I wouldn’t be averse to 30% profit return on a good investment. Especially when someone else does all the work."

"You and me both," Gushie grinned. "Hey - listen, don’t go spreading this around, okay? He really is her ‘sleeping partner’. Most people think it’s all hers out there. I save the joke for those who might appreciate it most."

"Well, it’s a good joke," the pilot acknowledged, "but I wouldn’t dream of passing it on to anyone. I’ve no business in Louie’s business. Besides - it would ruin his reputation if word got out that all he shares with a woman like that is an account book. He has an image to uphold."

The man in the chair chuckled. "It ain’t easy. But Madelaine’s probably one of the few attractive women who can walk into that office and got give it a second thought ..."

* * *

The door closed behind them with a discrete click. Bon Chance moved across to the desk, reaching inside the bag he carried to pull out the leather-bound ledgers that lay within. The room was a shadowed refuge, dappled with slivers of sunlight where they pierced the hanging blinds. It was a little warmer than the open, fan-cooled room they had just left, but still an escape from the insistent heat of the day. The blinds were half closed in order to provide that extra shade; that it also provided its occupiers’ privacy was not a fact that had escaped either its owner, or his current companion.

" _So the purchaser from Singapore was impressed with your progress,"_ he was asking in French as he stacked the ledgers on the side table and began to clear the paperwork on the desktop. Behind him, Madelaine Belvoir reached back her hand to turn the key in the lock.

"Mais oui. _He even agreed with my harvest dates."_

He nodded at this, carefully placing the bundled papers into files and the files on the cabinet. He paused to take off his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of the chair before he sat down on it. " _So you have contracted for the pineapples, and the bananas are still covered by last year’s agreement, and the copra and coconut ..."_

She had moved across to join him, coming to stand at his side and look down at him with thoughtful eyes. As he continued to consider business she reached out and turned his head toward her. "Louie," she commanded with firm authority, " _Shut up."_

She followed the words with action, bending forward to silence him with far more efficiency than words ever could. Her lips sought his with a purpose that became urgency as he responded in kind; she kissed, not with the affectionate touch of friendship, or even the hesitant gentleness of lovers, but with a desperate sense of passion. " _Please,"_ she whispered as they parted for breath, and he smiled quietly and pulled her down into his lap, into his embrace, with an ease that might have been a practised step in a familiar dance. She curled against him, her hand sliding around his neck to bring their faces close; her mouth tasted the curve of his cheek before once again seeking his lips. His fingers ran through her hair and then down the curve of her back, each encountered buttons brief obstacles that hardly slowed the pattern of his hand. She pressed closer, demanding urgency in the force of her kisses, and then twisted away to slide out of the folds of fabric that fell unnoticed to the polished floor. She had kicked off her shoes; her slip and other underwear followed them under the desk so that she slid back to his lap naked and brazen in the half light of day. He pulled her close, bending his head to nuzzle at her breasts, and she arched back into his arms with silent abandon. Their dance was breathless and urgent, no languorous dalliance but a demanding expenditure of energy. She clung to him insistently, her arousal swift and his responses driven by it. It was her hand that fumbled at his clothing to release the heat it contained and it was she who possessed him, in a vice-like grip of knees and thighs. It was no elegant pleasure they shared but a sweated, eager coupling, a race which neither could win, but both aspired to; afterwards, she rested her limp weight against him and panted softly for breath.

"Mon Dieu, Madelaine," he murmured when he had energy to speak again, " _you are exhausting, are you not?"_

_"I know,"_ she agreed, breathing softly in his ear. _"I never heard Paul complain."_

He smiled wryly. _"Who said I was complaining?"_

She giggled, uncurling herself with reluctance in order to regain her feet. He eased himself cautiously in the support of the chair and she giggled a second time, this time at his brief expression of disconcertion. Her hand reached forward to dip into the jacket pocket behind him and then returned to silently hand him his handkerchief. He looked up at the curve of her nakedness and then laughed with quiet amusement.

_"I should buy myself a more comfortable chair,"_ he observed, restoring both dignity and decorum with the aid of the handkerchief and a readjustment of his clothing. She paused in the process of her own readornment to look at him in mock surprise.

_"Are you telling me you did not have that in mind when you bought the furniture in the first place?"_

He threw her a wounded look. _"Contrary to common belief,"_ he protested, _"I do occasionally have other priorities."_

She denied that with a shake of her head as she twisted to reach her buttons. He stood, wincing a little as the action made demands on muscles that were set in all the wrong directions, and went to her aid. _"And you a Frenchman,"_ she scolded. _"There are no other priorities."_

_"Well,"_ he extemporised, " _perhaps I had just not considered the likelihood of such enthusiasm."_

She turned, the last button complete, and slid her arms around him affectionately. _"I thought you weren’t complaining."_

_"I am not,"_ he re-iterated sternly, then sighed, returning the embrace with one of his own. _"Madelaine, you do know that if anyone were to discover that you and I do any more than check these ledgers of yours, then I would probably be accused of using my involvement in your business to press an unfair advantage?"_

She buried her face in his cravat and breathed in the echo of her perfume mingled with his own. _"I seem to recall that the addition to our working practices was entirely my idea,"_ she murmured. _"You tried to talk me out of it the first time, remember?"_

_"I remember. I didn’t want you to think you were obliged in that way. You should never think that. It would be dishonest of me."_

She let go with reluctance and walked away from him, staring instead at the bright painting that hung on the opposite wall. On it a pair of bare-breasted native women reached to pick a canvas harvest of oil-swirled fruit. _"I’ve heard it said you are a scoundrel and a rogue,"_ she said softly. _"That you do not measure your honour in legal honesty all of the time. You may consider public morality a foolish facade, but you have never lied to me, Louie. Never cheated me, or failed me in any way. You have always been a perfect gentleman, both in business and - other matters."_ She turned back to face him, her eyes intense in the shadowed light. _"When Paul died I had nothing left to cling to. I was drowning, and you reached into the flood and pulled me back to higher ground. You demanded nothing, and you offered me a fair price when I was desperate enough to accept far less and pay far more. For the first six months I was wild with suspicion - sure you wanted more from me, sure you had a hidden agenda that would tumble me back into the waiting ocean. But you never did."_ She sighed and stepped across to occupy the chair on the other side of the desk, fiddling with the ring on her left hand as she did so. He slid back into his own seat, watching her with vaguely troubled eyes.

_"I make a handsome profit from your hard work, every year,"_ he reminded her, reaching to open the curved box at his elbow. _"It was a good investment."_

_"I wouldn’t have accepted charity. You believed in Paul’s dream - even when I no longer could."_ She accepted the proffered cigarette and leant forward so that he could light it for her. _"When the suspicion died, it was as if everything else had died with it. My grief, my desires, myself. I was numb for an entire year, and it was only because I had to bring you those damn books that I crawled out of bed each morning and made myself work to fill them. It was those books, your faith in me - that held me together even more than my daughters’ needs. They were part of Paul, and it hurt, to have them and not him."_

_"They understood that. They still do."_

_"I know."_ She took a deep breath through the fragile tobacco, wreathing herself in smoke, and he lit his own cigarette almost absently, intent on her face. _"When I began to see the light in the tunnel, it was just enough to stir a different suspicion for a while. I knew your reputation - you collect women the way that other men collect stamps - or art,"_ she added, glancing back at the Gauguin with a haunted smile. He did not interrupt her, but he lent his elbows on the desktop and acknowledged her brief distraction with a wry smile of his own. _"You’d never shown any interest in me that way, and I began to wonder why. Was I ugly? Paul had never thought so, but Paul was a man of the soil, a peasant to his soul. Perhaps, I considered, you thought I was beneath you. Then I wondered if you thought me cold and unobtainable. I didn’t want you, not then,"_ she explained with a wry grimace. _"I was just afraid that you didn’t want me."_

His expression was quietly sympathetic. _"I had a great deal of respect for your husband, even though I knew him for so short a time. I had an even greater respect for the regard you held for him. I had no wish to intrude upon that. And sometimes friends are harder to collect than lovers."_

She laughed softly. _"A true gentleman,"_ she observed. _"But you were right. Had you made even the slightest advance toward me then I would never have trusted you again. It seemed like a betrayal to Paul, even to hear another man praise me in that way. I never want to betray his memory,"_ she insisted fiercely. _"He was my life. But I had to go on living, even when he could not."_ She took another breath of smoke and exhaled it slowly. _"Someone asked me recently whether I had take a lover again. Do you know what I said?"_

He shook his head, unwilling to disturb the flow of her thoughts with words. _"I told them the only man I had ever shared a bed with was my husband. I was very fierce about it. It was the truth,"_ she protested at his look. His eyes glittered with recollection.

_"His bed may be sacrosanct. Not so his hearth rug,"_ he observed shrewdly.

_"I needed you. I needed to feel alive again. And there was no-one else \- no-one who would not read it for anything more than it was. I didn’t need a full-time lover. Just a reminder that I was a woman after all."_

He fixed his gaze to the glowing point of his cigarette. _"I have either just been insulted,"_ he murmured softly, _"or paid a very great compliment."_

She looked uncomfortable. _"I know I’ve used you, Louie, and I’m sorry for that. But I thought you understood. That it didn’t change anything between us."_

_"I do - and it hasn’t,"_ he assured her. _"You are an efficient partner, and more especially my friend. Nothing will ever change that, I trust."_

_"I hope not."_ She turned away, staring out at the glimpses of the outside world that flickered through the blinds. _"I’m getting married again."_

He half-choked on an in-drawn breath of smoke, but unlike Cutter’s earlier reaction, he concealed the moment with ease. _"You are? Why didn’t you say so before ...?"_

_"Because then you wouldn’t have - well,"_ she coloured a little. _"You know."_

He raised an elegant eyebrow in her direction, a quiet challenge written across his face. Her expression grew sheepish, then totally embarrassed. _You wouldn’t have,"_ she insisted defensively, _"and I needed you this one more time."_

He replaced the challenge with an understanding smile. _"You are probably right,"_ he admitted. _"I do have principles, whatever people might think."_

_"I told you you were a gentleman."_ She reached out to tip the growing length of ash into the waiting ashtray. Her eyes held obvious relief. _"His name is Gerald Crawcour. He’s a Belgian surveyor, working with the construction office on Tagataya. He came out with the team that worked on the extension to the cannery at the end of last year."_

_"I remember."_

_"He came back to watch the work progress. We talked, walked together, listened to music ..."_

_"Made love?"_ He suggested wryly and was surprised at the vehemence of her denial.

_"Not then. Not ever - not yet. He considers me a chaste widow, untouched by nay but my husband's memory. He has a_ _great admiration for what I have achieved in the shadow of tragedy."_

_"Do you love him?"_

She considered the answer to that carefully before she spoke. _"No. But he wants to take care of me. I need that, Louie. I need someone to be with me, to pay me attention, to take charge from time to time. I’m tired of always being the one who is strong. I want - I want Paul, and I cannot have him, so I will settle for Gerald instead, because he wants me."_ She paused, her expression almost defying him to tell her she was wrong. Bon Chance sighed, reaching out catch her hand.

_"I hope you will be happy, Madelaine,"_ he said softly. _"You deserve another chance at it. Do Ellen and Jeanette know?"_

She smiled at the mention of her daughters’ names, but her fingers curled tightly around his as if he had triggered some deep-seated fear she could not express. _"They are pleased for me. I think that they like him, but they are away at school so much, I rarely see them now. He tells me he likes children. Louie,"_ she asked a little doubtfully, _"Gerald was talking of a ceremony on Tagataya but I want to be married at home. You are my Magistrate - will you come to Mahoi and ratify the licence there?"_

_"I would be happy to - provided,"_ he said, with a hint of wickedness in his grin, _"you can keep a straight face when you make your vows."_

_"I will,"_ she promised. _"I will mean every word. I was faithful to Paul, and I will be faithful to Gerald. You really don’t mind?"_

_"Madelaine,"_ he chided gently, _"you are a grown woman and quite capable of knowing your own mind. If you are sure, then I will be glad for you. I only own part of Paul Belvoir’s plantation, not part of his widow. Whatever I have had from her has been a gift of her own choosing."_

She half rose to lean across the desk and kiss him gently on the forehead, a chaste kiss, the kind exchanged between friends. _"Gerald’s away in the south for another month,"_ she said. _"Can you come on the 16th? I will confirm everything - even send the boat ..."_

_"No need,"_ he assured her. _"Now Jake has decided to base his business here, you are no more than an hour away. Now ..."_ He loosed his grip on her hand to reach for the leather bound ledgers. _"I believe we still have some other business to attend to ..."_

* * *

Cutter shared an interesting afternoon, learning a lot about life on a plantation simply by listening to Madelaine’s tales of recent events on Mahoi. She entertained her audience with gossip, news and a little exaggeration; she was rewarded with an afternoon of company and laughter and she left with three new friends to tell her daughters about. She distributed generous kisses when she left, hugging Gushie, and making Corky blush as she pressed her ample bosom against him in order to buss his lips. The pilot she hugged with friendly enthusiasm and she even remembered to scratch the right spot behind Jack’s ear. She was so busy with her new-found comrades that she almost forgot the more discrete member of the group; she swung round and repeated those affectionate kisses on Bon Chance’s cheeks before hurrying away to her waiting boat. The native handlers had spent the afternoon stocking up on supplies and the launch wallowed low in the water was it pulled away.

"Nice lady," Cutter decided as they watched her go. Jack agreed with two short barks, then pattered back into the bar to finish his beer. He’d been included in the general invitation to the wedding and he’d answered yes before his master could, which had made everybody laugh. That had concluded it as far as Jake and Corky went - if Jack said she was okay, then she had to be okay.

Bon Chance smiled at his friends and returned to his office, leaving Gushie staring after him in vague puzzlement.

"Something wrong?" Cutter asked him.

The man shook his head. "I guess not. Madelaine’s visits usually cheer him up a little more than that, but ... well, perhaps he’s got other things on his mind."

Cutter grinned. "I don’t think he needed cheering up in the first place. He looks happy enough to me."

Gushie shrugged. "Maybe." He laughed softly and turned to wheel away. "And maybe he’s a little upset she decided to get married without telling him about it sooner."

"I thought you said ..."

"I did. There’s nothing between them, and nothing likely to be. Madelaine’s not his type, you know? Not for a long affair, anyway. Too earthy, and too matter-of-fact. Lots of fun for a brief encounter, but he prefers them to possess a little mystery ... or class. Or both."

"Gushie," Cutter couldn’t resist the question, "what makes you such an expert on Louie’s women, anyway?"

The only reply he got was a wry look and a warm chuckle that told him nothing at all.

* * *

Time passed in a flurry of unrelated events that only served to bind Jake Cutter closer to the heart of his chosen home. He bid for, and won, the government mail contract, thereby ensuring some kind of regular income alongside the more itinerant flying. That took him to Mahoi once before the wedding, but it was no more than a fleeting visit and Madelaine’s fiancé was not to be seen as he was away on Tagataya concluding business. Madelaine herself greeted him warmly and gave her newest friends a guided tour of her flourishing kingdom; the estate was a sprawl of orchards, planted fields and wild land. It included the efficient pattern of the factory that overlooked the Mahoi lagoon. It was a noisy, heated place filled with busy workers as they stamped cans out of sheet tin and filled them with steam-sealed fruit. Corky was breathtakingly impressed with the equipment, which included a fascinating machine for cutting and coring pineapples, while Cutter was much more taken with the welcoming smiles of Madelaine’s people. She employed nearly half of the island’s native village, and the rest of her workers were made up by an assortment of nationalities, some on migrant contracts, the rest already settled with their families. The remaining natives supported the estate in other ways - as fishermen, or in other capacities. Gushie had not been exaggerating when he said that Madelaine was responsible for the entire island’s economy; even the few independent farmers who shared the soil of Mahoi sold most of their produce to the Belvoir estate, and made use of the harbour Paul Belvoir had enlarged over the years. The local priest, who also appeared to run the school house, spoke warmly of their debt to Madelaine while collecting his mail, and Cutter was left with a sense of a happy community that had been founded on hard work as well as determination. He had shared that thought with Bon Chance when the _Goose_ returned to Boragora, wanting to express his understanding of why his friend might have decided to accept the financial commitment that Mahoi represented, even if he would not receive much recognition for it. The Frenchman had laughed softly, telling him that jumping to conclusions might be a fine sport, but a dangerous way to conduct one’s life, at which Cutter had to assume that he was probably right, but it was also none of his business.

Shortly thereafter the pilot went to the rescue of an unlikely damsel in distress, who turned out to be an agent for the American government and who was destined to help him into a great deal of hot water over the coming months. Sarah’s arrival in the islands almost put Madelaine out of his mind altogether, and she was both surprised and a little hurt to discover that her new-found friends were all going to a wedding she’d not been invited to. As she’d not even been on Boragora when the invitations were issued, her complaint was only half-hearted and not too put out, but she was overjoyed when Bon Chance casually remarked that he’d offered her services for the reception after the ceremony and Madelaine had been delighted at the idea.

"I love weddings," she announced as the small group gathered on the dock for the departure to Mahoi. They had packed their finest, since the _Goose_ was not the best of travel accommodation and they had a good hour to fly before they reached their destination. Corky had scrubbed his face and put on clean overalls for the journey, while Jack was sulking because he was going to have to wear his eye-patch instead of his precious eye. Gushie had expressed doubts about getting his chair into the plane, but they managed it and, after Louie appeared with his bundle of paperwork, they set off into the morning sky in a cheerful and expectant mood.

Mahoi more than matched their anticipations. It was a beautiful island, draped in soft greenery and washed with blue water on white beaches. The bay that contained the cannery quays and the houses where the plantation workers lived formed an easy landing strip for the _Goose_ despite its larger than normal contingent of boats, and they docked to find the whole place awash with garlands of flowers. Young women laded them with leis as they disembarked and the place had a general air of festivity. The plantation overseer led them up to the house, originally a modest construction built on one level but added to over the intervening years. Tables were laid out in the open plaza between the angle of the building and its supporting out-houses, the whole place festooned with decorations and filled with music. Natives were singing as they worked around an enormous firepit, and the scent of roast meat and spiced cooking drifted around them. Other guests were already moving among the tables, many of them having arrived the day before. Bon Chance greeted several as he passed among them, men and women from other estates and plantations within his mandate as Magistrate, others waved in the arriving party’s general direction as they were shown into the guest wing of the house. Cutter found he knew many of the European guests that mingled with the estate workers; his mail run clearly took him to most of the Marivellas’ more prominent citizens. Some of those he didn’t know personally he recognised from time spent on Tagataya; the groom’s associates, he supposed.

By the time he had changed and re-emerged to join the growing throng, he found most of the rest of his party waiting for him. Corky managed to look both amenably happy and decidedly uncomfortable in his new suit; he was carrying Jack, who had been brushed until he practically shone. Gushie was wearing his service dress jacket and his medals, his hair slicked down so that it gleamed in the sunlight; beside him, Sarah was a vision in a swirl of white and scarlet rose printed cotton, her hat tilted at an attractive angle and a single orchid pinned to her shoulder. Cutter lifted an eyebrow at the flower and she laughed, pointing a finger of blame at Gushie, who blushed. That left only one of the group unaccounted for, and the pilot glanced over the heads of the crowd in search of him, finally identifying the familiar figure engaged in conversation with the Mahoi priest, who was dressed in his full regalia for once. Cutter led the rest of them in that direction, smiling a little to himself as he did so. Bon Chance was attired with impeccable attention to detail - his best white suit shone in the sun, each line of it set to a perfect crease or fold. His cravat was a dark gold silk shot with silver, his waistcoat carried discrete lines of embroidery along its curves and the watch chain that dipped at just the right curve across it was a subtle line of gold and emerald, glinting in the light. He looked svelte and exactly right - not overdressed or flashy, like many in the crowd, but discretely and precisely dressed so as to carry an impression of authority without overshadowing the purpose of the day. He looked up with a smile as his comrades approached, acknowledging Sarah’s finery with an appreciative nod of satisfaction and added an approving grin after a brief inspection of the rest of them.

Just then the swirl of crowd parted a little to allow passage to a man none of them immediately recognised. He was tall and broadly built, a square-faced figure, his hair a neat layer of dark gold and his trimmed beard shot with ginger. The immediate impression was that of a powerful man, his movement light despite the sense of his size. He was Cutter’s height, but his shoulders were much broader and the hand that he thrust in Bon Chance’s direction was built to match the rest of him.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the man said, eyeing the Magistrate with a vague hint of surprise, as though he were not what he expected at all. "I am Gerald Crawcour. Thank you for coming today."

Bon Chance shook the proffered hand, and added a brief inclination of his head as he did so. Beside the new arrival he looked almost fragile, much as a racehorse might when placed next to one bred to the plough; for all that he showed no sign of intimidation as the man loomed over him. He smiled and introduced his companions, whom Crawcour greeted with dutiful attention. Cutter was reasonably impressed with the man. He seemed polite and not overbearing, despite his advantage of size. Sarah murmured some remark about seeing what Madelaine saw in the man while Corky stuttered his congratulations and Gushie expressed his pleasure at finally meeting Madelaine’s fiancé. Father Doncleur, the priest, beamed at them all, muttering something to Bon Chance concerning the arrangements, only to be interrupted as two more figures emerged from the crowd.

They were unmistakable, their mother in miniature, and they rushed from behind the groom to throw delighted arms around the smaller Frenchman with cries of welcome. Cutter grinned at their enthusiasm, glancing up at Crawcour with conspiratorial delight. Briefly, something akin to anger flashed in the man’s steel blue eyes, only to be quickly covered by what could have been affectionate exasperation.

"Ellen, Jeanette," he scolded softly, "is that any way to treat such an important guest? You will crease your pretty dresses, and what will your mam say?"

Bon Chance had dropped down to greet the girls with an attentive kiss on each offered cheek. Jeanette, the younger of the two, carefully turned her other one up as soon as he’d finished with the first one. He laughed and buffed it with his knuckles, reaching to enfold both of them in a careful hug. _"And how are the two most beautiful women in my life?"_ he inquired, eliciting a duplicate of giggles and blushing cheeks. Ellen, the eldest at ten, was the image of her mother. She wore a white cotton dress layered in lace, her blonde curls caught up by silk ribbons and dressed with flowers. Jeanette, a plumper eight-year-old, had darker hair with a hint of red in it. Her dress was equally fancy, and a posy of flowers dangled from her wrist by a pale blue ribbon. She turned a little to pout impish defiance at the man about to become her new father.

"He’s not important," she protested. "He’s just Uncle Louie."

Out of the mouths of babes ... Cutter and Sarah exchanged a look that became a suppressed snort of laughter; Gushie threw back his head with a silent howl, while Corky sniggered almost uncontrollably. Bon Chance himself was quietly amused; he sighed with mock despair. "Ah me," he breathed, "I am put firmly in my place, n’est ce pas?" He lifted himself back to his full height, intending to share the laughter in his eyes with Crawcour; the watching man was oddly disconcerted.

"I’m sorry, Mons," he apologised, reaching to catch at the youngsters’ hands. "They are excited by today. They should not be so disrespectful."

His guest was still amused; he regarded the man beside him with mild unconcern. "These ladies and I are old friends," he assured him softly. "I am not offended. Au contraire," he added, winking at Ellen with conspiratorial affection. "But you are quite right. You must be good, mes petite lapins. It is your mother's day today, n'est ce pas?" The two of them giggled again, nodding agreement with enthusisam. "Bon," he continued with authority, "then run along and tell her we are ready." His hand directed Crawcour towards the edge of the decorated area, where a smaller table was flanked by the two officiating constables. "Mons? If you will ...?"

The broad-shouldered man stared after his soon-to-be stepdaughters, then recollected himself with a small shake and nodded agreeably. Father Doncleur fell into step with him as they walked away, leaving the group from Boragora to find themselves a suitable place in the gathering. Silence settled slowly over the crowd, a waiting hush punctuated by excited whispers or the occasional laugh. Crawcour stood to one side of the table, tugging a little at his collar with nervous reaction. Doncleur had stepped back, the civil ceremony needing completion before he could begin his blessing, and Bon Chance had placed himself behind the spread of paperwork, his stance relaxed as if he did this every day of his life.

Native voices heralded the arrival of the bride, the song a liquid melody that carried clearly in the open air. Madelaine was radiant, dressed in a suit of palest blue, her face hidden behind a discrete veil and her arms filled with a tumble of flowers. Behind her, her daughters walked with studied determination, keeping pace with each other by means of the occasional extra step. She moved with grace, greeting people in the gathering with grateful pleasure as she passed them; when she came to Crawcour’s side, she favoured him with a warm smile before turning to face her Magistrate with calm expectation. Bon Chance found her a wicked grin before schooling his expression into lines of authority. Cutter could have sworn that Madelaine was wrestling with the desire to laugh out loud.

She didn’t, and the ceremony proceeded without a hitch, the official recognition of the marriage being duly ratified and recorded before Father Doncleur stepped forward to offer the blessing of the church. When it was over, Crawcour kissed the bride with enthusiasm; he relinquished her for Bon Chance’s congratulatory kiss with anxious reluctance. Madelaine hugged her business partner with delighted relief, and then went on to do the same with the priest, who looked a little taken aback. Her new husband retrieved her with determination, leading her down through her guests to preside at the feast. Corky, who had begun to fidget through the litany of French, brightened up immediately.

It was a good day. The food was excellent, the company festive, and the event worth a celebration. Through it all, Crawcour kept a tight hold of his new wife, who seemed amused at his possessiveness. The two girls were soon running around with wild enthusiasm, begging titbits off everybody, many of which they then fed to Jack. The party went on long into the night, with fires leaping in bright array in front of the house, and wine and laughter flowing freely. Sarah performed three songs, accompanied by Corky on the estate piano, which was wheeled out for just that purpose, and everyone demanded an encore when she’d finished. Madelaine requested one certain song, at which Bon Chance and Gushie shared an anxious glance, but Sarah seemed unaware of any problem as she launched into it. The bride applauded more than anyone at its end, and Crawcour sent Sarah a bottle of wine across as a thank you. She brought it back to share with the rest of her party, while the new couple slipped unnoticed from the crowd. It seemed the perfect end to a perfect day.


	2. Chapter 2

The events of the wedding were quickly forgotten as other adventures befell the residents of the Monkey Bar. Cutter spent his time delivering mail, transporting cargo, getting Sarah out of trouble and himself into it, while avoiding the Princess Kogi’s amused grasp and desperately trying to recover Jack’s missing eye. He quickly got used to being involved with Sarah’s schemes and missions, despite developing a tendency to get shot at, and life on Boragora was never dull - except on the occasional Friday night, when guessing monkeys palled as quickly as it had once relieved the terminal boredom. It was a good two months before he saw Madelaine again: Madelaine Crawcour, as he had to remind himself. She arrived much as she had before, the native boatmen helping her onto the dock, although this time her husband hovered protectively behind her. She parted from him with a kiss, which he took almost hungrily, leaving him to go with the others in search of supplies while she made her way into the coolness of the bar. Cutter, who had been working on the dock, much as he had the first time, waved at her as she passed. She waved back, then glanced hurriedly around as if afraid she might have been seen doing it.

Inside the bar, Gushie greeted her with an enthusiasm that she didn’t return with as much energy as usual. She stopped him as he wheeled away for her drink, explaining that she was no longer allowed wine. Her face softened at his confusion, her hand drifting possessively to the curve of her stomach; the explanation brought a broad grin to the chairbound man’s face. He waved at the office door when she asked after her partner, and she made her way up the inner steps, her face distracted and her smile a little thin.

Bon Chance looked up as the door opened, the unexpected visitor receiving a delighted smile of welcome. The smile faded somewhat when it was returned with weary delight; she was pleased to see him, that much was certain, but she was not her usual cheery self and he waved her to a chair with concern in his eyes.

_"You should have let me know you were coming,"_ he chided as she placed the bag with the ledgers on the desk. She shook her head, oddly defensive in her response.

_"I wasn’t sure - of exactly when,"_ she explained. _"Gerald \- we needed certain things that it was not worth sending to Tagataya for, and I suggested coming here, so it seemed sensible to bring the ledgers ..."_ She tailed off, her words unconvincing and his steady gaze seeing straight through her.

_"He doesn’t know,"_ Bon Chance stated softly, reading her wary attitude with resigned realisation. _"About the business. Why not, Madelaine? Are you ashamed of me?"_

"Non!" she exclaimed, the word almost wounded. _"I just - there hasn’t been time, exactly, and ... and when I told him about the baby ..."_ She broke off, looking away with an almost guilty start. _"I’m sorry,"_ she recovered quickly. _"I didn’t mean you to find out like that. It’s my best news, Louie - he was so happy, and ... we never seem to discuss business, somehow."_

He grinned, shaking his head with amused affection. _"Oh, Madelaine,"_ he laughed. _"I’m pleased for you. But that is even more reason to make sure Gerald understands our arrangement. You must not work so hard - in your condition."_

She coloured, finding him a quiet smile. _"I asked him to meet me here,"_ she said. _"He won’t be long. Louie,"_ she asked, suddenly serious, _"will you tell him? I - he’s so possessive about things, and you can explain so much better than I can. I don’t want him to think I lied to him in any way ..."_

_"Have you?"_ he asked quietly.

She looked down at her hands and her shoulders slumped. _"He thinks the estate is all mine. And sometimes ... I wonder, if it is me he cares for, or the estate. He checks all of my decisions, and ... well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to be sure he understands my situation."_

_"Madelaine,"_ Bon Chance questioned warily, _"are you happy - with Gerald?"_

_"Oh yes,"_ she answered, too quickly, too sure. _"That is - most of the time he has nothing but concern for me."_ She smiled with genuine pleasure. _"He was so happy about the baby. He insisted I sat down and he did everything for me ..."_ Her face fell slowly, settling into lines of quiet anxiety. _"But some nights he drinks."_

There were too many implications behind that simple statement. He looked at her with wary concern, wondering how many of them he was expected to identify. _"And?"_ he prompted, keeping his expression neutral, inviting the confidence she would need to fell ready to share. Madelaine laughed, a forced sound.

_"And nothing,"_ she shrugged. _"I am getting too sensitive, Bon Chance. It is probably the baby, you know? When I was carrying Jeanette I decided I hated the colour yellow and threw out everything in my wardrobe that was touched by it. Paul found me cutting the yellow flowers off my best hat ..."_ She realised she was gabbling and recollected herself with an effort. _"That was too long ago. Gerald says I dwell too much in the past. Perhaps he is right."_

Bon Chance shook his head gently, wishing he could reach past the sudden walls she had raised around herself, but unable to do so until she chose otherwise. _"You cannot abandon your own history,"_ he said, reaching for the top ledger since it was clear whatever troubled her was not something she had found the courage to share with him. _"Believe me - I know."_

_"I’m sure you do,"_ she answered. His lips quirked into a conspiratorial grin, and after a moment she relaxed and let a wary smile creep into her eyes. _"Do you have no shame?"_ she asked, the laugh in her voice a genuine one. _"I am a married woman, you know."_

_"I noticed,"_ he told her, flipping open the ledger with business-like efficiency. _"Which is precisely why we will start with the monthly wage accounts ..."_

They worked on for over an hour, immersed in the intricacies of depreciation and cost per acreage; he had no doubt that the ledgers tallied, since he had never found a single mistake in her accounting throughout their partnership. The matters they discussed were more concerned with reasons and long-term returns than they were with individual figures. The price of imported tin had risen further than expected, but the yield was also up; they argued the balance for several minutes before he gave way on her assessment, deferring to her judgement with a reluctant sigh. He followed the acquiescence with a sharp suggestion that had passed her by entirely; she frowned over the proposal until she realised it would save her considerable expenditure in the long run. It had not taken long for her initial disconcertion to be lost in the familiar exchange of work, and she laughed without self-consciousness at having missed the obvious.

_"Now that is why you are good for me,"_ she observed with affection. _"I get too close to things to see the wider pattern. Too involved with the details. You have a good eye for the trends."_

_"I am just practised at jigsaw puzzles,"_ he smiled. _"At picturing the missing pieces. And I know people,"_ he added, reaching out to touch her hand with a friendly apt. _"You are too trusting, cherie ..."_

The door flew open, driven by force. Gerald Crawcour bulked in the doorway, the square features of his face twisted in an angry frown. Madelaine jumped, jerking her hand back from her companion’s touch and straightening almost with guilt. Bon Chance turned his head without alarm, his expression mildly questioning. "Ah, Monsieur," he greeted the man lightly. "I was wondering when you would join us."

"Were you," Crawcour growled, striding across to tower over his wife. "It didn’t look as if you were expecting me at all."

"Gerald," Madelaine said anxiously, "Louie and I have almost finished here. Why don’t you wait ..."

" ... outside?" the man completed for her, his tone vaguely sarcastic. "Madelaine, I have been waiting outside for the past ten minutes. I didn’t like what I heard." He glared at the man on the other side of the desk, his look challenging. "I know all about your reputation, Mons Magistrate." He made the title sound like an insult. "So don’t think I can be mollified with lies. My wife tells me she has business with you - what kind of business might that be, exactly?"

Bon Chance took in a slow breath and carefully indicated the man should sit in the remaining chair. Crawcour continued to glare at him for a moment before he pulled across the indicated seat and dropped into it. His host waited until he was completely seated, then leant his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together in front of him. "Madelaine and I have been going over the ledgers for the estate," he explained quietly. "Things are looking very positive this year."

Crawcour’s hostile expression twisted into a puzzled frown. "The estate? Why the hell should she show you those? It’s none of your business." Beside him Madelaine winced, reaching to clasp at his hand, either to offer reassurance or else to seek it.

"Au contraire," Bon Chance laughed. "It is exactly that, Mons. More mine than Madelaine’s, in fact."

"What?" Crawcour glared at him with astonishment. "Madelaine \- what does he mean?"

She glanced a little helplessly at both of them before turning her eyes towards the floor. "What he says, Gerald. He owns the majority of the estate. I am only its manager."

Crawcour stared at her, his expression deepening into puzzled anger as he swung back to face the patient man behind the desk. "I believe I am owed an explanation," he suggested coldly. He wrapped one massive hand around the one that Madelaine had offered him and held it possessively on his lap. "One I should have received a while ago?"

"Unquestionably, Mons," Bon Chance said mildly. He did not like the look in Crawcour’s eye, but the man had a right to be angry. He had expected Madelaine to explain to her new husband - that she had not was vaguely disturbing, but perhaps understandable. "The situation is perfectly simple, and entirely to everyone’s advantage, I can assure you. When Paul Belvoir died, he left his estate in equal parts to his two daughters and his wife. Ellen and Jeanette being under-age, their portion was placed under legal guardianship until they reached their majority - a role that, as Magistrate de Justice, I was more than happy to assume at the time."

Relief skittered across Crawcour’s face. "The girls," he said. "Of course. I had thought that Madelaine ..."

Bon Chance raised a hand to interrupt him. "There is more, Mons. Allow me to explain it fully, n’est ce pas? Along with a third of the estate, Madelaine also inherited a large number of debts - none of which the bank was prepared to underwrite. Not only had she lost," he hesitated, considering the two of them thoughtfully as he assessed the best way to phrase matters, "her husband, but she also faced losing her livelihood. Since the foreclosing on the finance would also affect the proportion of the estate which was to be held in trust ..." He spread his hands wide to indicate the inevitability of events, "I decided that I had no other choice than to act - in the best interests of all involved."

Madelaine took a careful breath and looked up at her new husband. "I signed over the ownership of my share in exchange for the settlement of the debts," she announced, earning herself an encouraging smile from behind the desk.

Crawcour looked dumbfounded. "You did what? Signed everything away?"

"Not everything," Bon Chance chuckled softly. "The house is still hers - along with certain other items we agreed at the time. But while I have an official interest in two thirds of the estate, the remaining third is purely personal. And entirely mine. Madelaine has managed things very well for the past three years. I have no doubt that she will continue to do so with her unquestionable ability. Our business partnership has proved very profitable."

The surveyor’s astonishment gave way to calculating consideration. He stared at the Frenchman through narrowed eyes. "So you say," he murmured tightly. "A neat piece of legality, I have no doubt. My wife does all the work, and you walk away with the profit. Very shrewd, Mons. Very enlightening." He turned to look at Madelaine, and he smiled, although his eyes were cold. "We will talk about this later," he said softly. "Go out to the boat and wait for me. The Magistrate and I have other matters to discuss."

The glance Madelaine threw at her friend was both apologetic and a little helpless. She rose carefully to her feet, muttered a brief farewell, and turned to leave. Crawcour laid a possessive hand to her abdomen as she passed and she smiled a tentative smile at him before heading for the door. Bon Chance watched her go with a pensive frown. He had never known Madelaine to be so submissive to anyone, not even to her first husband. Her determination had been one of the things that gave him cause to admire her; this hesitant defensiveness was not like her at all.

"What can I do for you, Mons Crawcour?" he asked, turning back towards the man with a non-committal smile. The surveyor rose slowly to his feet and placed both of his massive hands on the edge of the desk.

"You can keep away from my wife," he growled.

Bon Chance looked up at the man as he towered over him and his face settled into unreadable stone. "Is this intended to be some kind of a threat, Mons? Madelaine and I are old friends. We are in business together, nothing more."

"From now on," the man insisted coldly, "your business will be with me, you understand? I’ve heard a lot about you, Bon Chance. Madelaine is my wife, and I don’t want you sweet-talking her out of any more of what’s hers by right. Because it’s mine now - and I intend to keep it. You may have legal right to the estate - and I’ll check that, because she’s trusting enough to believe anything - but you have no right to her, and I don’t trust you at all."

"Mons," the Magistrate said icily, "you will find our arrangement is perfectly legitimate. I have a great deal of respect for Madelaine. I can assure you that I would never act against her interests. Although if you insist on making unfounded accusations against me in my own office, I may find myself forced to action she may not approve of."

Their eyes locked, the larger man used to intimidation by sheer physical presence. The tension in the room was palpable, but it was Crawcour who looked away first, shaken by the steel that lay in his opponent’s eloquent eyes. Bon Chance regarded him with a silent self surety that needed no gestures or empty demonstrations; Crawcour’s bravado quailed under that settled gaze and he straightened self-consciously as if he were a little ashamed at his outburst. "That will not be necessary, Mons," he announced, reaching to sweep the leather-bound ledgers into their bag. "I’m sure we understand each other on this matter."

"I doubt it," Bon Chance breathed softly. There was a quiet note of hostility in his voice. "But for Madelaine’s sake we will forget this conversation ever happened. Good day, Mons Crawcour."

The fair haired man’s face creased back into frustrated anger, but he clearly thought better of any words. He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving the owner of the office staring after him with cold eyes.

* * *

"Isn’t Madelaine staying for the afternoon?" Cutter asked, looking back at the quay where the woman concerned was stepping back into her boat with her husband.

Gushie shrugged. "Guess not. You hear her news?"

"No. Should I have?"

The man in the chair grinned. "Do you think Sarah would be any good at knitting bootees?"

"How should I ... Madelaine’s having a baby? Good for her. Hey," Cutter called, seeing Bon Chance emerge from the office. "That guy Crawcour’s a fast worker, wouldn’t you say? Two months in harness and he’s already a daddy-to-be."

"Mons Crawcour," the Frenchman observed frostily as he descended the stairs, "is a determined man."

Pilot and major-domo exchanged a glance of surprise. "Something wrong?" Cutter asked. Bon Chance considered the question before turning to lift the parrot from its perch.

"Non," he decided, closing the subject firmly and finally. "Gushie, have you finalised the order for spirits yet?" The parrot sidled up his arm to settle on his shoulder as he made his way across to the bar.

"No," his assistant answered, after one last puzzled look at the pilot. Cutter shrugged. Clearly something had happened between the two men, but just as clearly they were not about to find out what. "Did you want to add to it?"

"I was considering our stock of rum." Bon Chance frowned, finding nothing but empty bowls on the counter. "What do I pay people around here for?" he asked generally, and Gushie winced.

"Sorry," he grimaced. "We had more people in this morning than we expected. I’ll see to it."

"I will see to it," the Frenchman decided, shaking his head with resignation. "Did you want me, Jake, or are you just being decorative this afternoon?"

"Ah." Cutter wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to this comment. He had the distinct feeling that his friend was not in a good mood at all. "I just came in for some coffee," he said, snatching at sensible excuses. "Corky and I are trying to fix that port engine before tomorrow. If I don’t get Sarah to Tagataya on time she’s gonna kill me."

That, at least, brought the ghost of a smile to the older man’s face. "Undoubtedly," he agreed, reaching behind the bar to extract the bag of nuts with which to refill the empty bowls. "Help yourself, mon ami. Unless that is empty as well."

It wasn’t, but the pilot refrained from saying so. He poured a generous slug of black coffee into two mugs and added the necessary spoonfuls of sugar to Corky’s serving. Gushie wheeled past with a vaguely martyred expression and Cutter threw him a sympathetic look. Bon Chance was not an easy man to upset, but something, or someone, had managed to do exactly that between the time of Madelaine Crawcour’s arrival and her departure. The pilot knew better than to ask questions, but it bothered him; he’d decided he liked Madelaine, right from the beginning, and if something was wrong he would have liked to know about it.

* * *

Time passed, and the incident became insignificant besides the major events that crowded in on each other. The unexpected eruption of Boragora’s resident volcano was swiftly followed by more intimate menaces. Bon Chance’s concern for Madelaine’s happiness was somewhat pushed aside by the arrival of the shadow from his own past; the whole sequence of events from the moment of recognition in the square to Cutter’s last minute rescue and the news he carried with it were more than enough to banish any lingering worries he might have otherwise investigated. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about Crawcour and the possible situation on Mahoi; he’d found time, during those interminable days of watching a very patient man sharpen the intended tool of his demise, to finalise the legal arrangements concerning the future ownership of the estate. None of which had mattered very much once Cutter had been able to prove the righteousness of an old friend’s death. He spoke briefly to his lawyer before returning home, and the documents were once again buried in among the paperwork where they belonged. No-one would know that his portion of the Belvoir estate had been assigned in trust to Madelaine; it was a decision he had made soon after assuming its responsibility, and her marriage had not changed his mind, although her chosen husband might have been surprised by some of the protective clauses he had insisted on adding to the bequest.

Life had managed to get back to normal by the time Gerald Crawcour made a reappearance in the Monkey Bar. He arrived alone, the native crewmen on his boat ordered to remain with the vessel. Bon Chance was in the bar discussing the mail schedules with Cutter when the surveyor strode in through the swing doors; both men looked up as the broad-shouldered figure loomed large in the doorway.

Crawcour’s face was set into vaguely hostile lines. He paced across to the table where the two men sat and stood there, not saying anything but waiting with brooding presence. Bon Chance, with a brief consideration of the new arrival, turned back to conclude his discussion as if the man had not interrupted in any way. Jack growled softly and crept under his master’s feet, which earned him a wary look from the pilot at least.

Cutter tried not to be put off by the growing anger of the man who stood watching them, agreeing the flight plan his friend suggested with one or two minor alterations concerned mostly with refuelling. It was hard to ignore Crawcour’s pointed stare \- not at the pilot, but at the man opposite him - and Cutter was glad when the natural flow of the conversation came to an end and he was able to escape without making it obvious that he wanted to. His business concluded, Bon Chance turned to his visitor with a non-committal acknowledgement, which earned him a glowering frown before Crawcour gained control of himself. The pilot hesitated to leave them, but after a moment the Magistrate lifted himself to his feet and gestured the Belgian in the direction of the office. Crawcour nodded and led the way, the bag that contained the Belvoir ledgers dangling easily from one hand. Cutter watched them go with an odd sense of misgiving, a reaction echoed by Gushie as he wheeled across to join him.

"I don’t know what he said last time he was here," the chair-bound man remarked worriedly, "but I haven’t seen Louie treat anyone that coldly since we left Georgetown." He laughed, a short bark of sound without humour in it. "And the guy on that occasion had come to kill him. He didn’t," he added, a little unnecessarily.

Cutter snorted. "You surprise me," he said dryly. "Did you talk him out of it?"

"Nah," Gushie denied, still watching the office door. "Just paid for the funeral expenses." His eyes took on a distant look as the memory came back to him. "It took two strong men to dispose of the body ... we were considering Crawcour, weren’t we?"

"Uhuh," the pilot agreed, intrigued by the glimpse of his friends’ past but knowing better than to pursue it. "No Madelaine, you noticed?"

Gushie shrugged, wheeling back to work. "Maybe she’s in no condition to travel. It’s been four months since we saw her last - only another three to go."

"Right," Cutter realised. "Has it been that long? Time sure flies around here."

"Nope," his friend shook his head. "Just you, Corky and the Clipper, once a week. Remember?"

* * *

Inside the office the atmosphere was coldly polite and distinctly strained. Crawcour conducted his business with barely-concealed hostility, restricting his remarks to pointed comments and the least amount of words. Bon Chance, in turn, studied the proffered ledgers with a growing frown. The work was sloppy, the expected neatness of Madelaine’s hand still there but the accompanying attention to detail oddly lacking. He checked off the balances with meticulous consideration, asking for clarification only where it was impossible to proceed without it. The surveyor grew more edgy as the matter progressed, suppressing an inner anger that snapped to the surface at each pointed question; he gave the impression that he expected his companion to be suspicious, and he resented the implications of it. Bon Chance restrained himself with practised accomplishment; he completed the necessary work and authorisations as quickly as he could, not liking the circumstances at all. At the end he had to ask the one question Crawcour was poised for - he had no choice, since he desperately wanted to know the answer.

"And Madelaine?" he enquired as he slid the last ledger into the bag. "She is well, I trust?"

"My wife," Crawcour replied, biting back his words with an effort, "is my concern, not yours, Mons. She is as I expect her to be. We will not expect your quarterly visit, since you will not be welcome. You can, of course, send someone else to inspect the estate if you wish."

"Are you banning me from my own property, Mons?" the Magistrate asked with what Gushie would have recognised as a dangerous note in among his mild tones.

"I am forbidding you to go anywhere near my wife," Crawcour shot back. "I know your kind. I thought we’d be rid of you after that incident a while back, but you wriggled out of it like the snake you are. You’ve been pouring your poison into Madelaine for long enough. No longer, Mons. She belongs to me, and me alone. I will save her from herself, and from you, too. Stay away from Mahoi, Bon Chance - and I will know if you do not." He brushed a line of sweat from his lower lip with the back of his hand and rose to his feet, snatching at the ledgers as he did so. "I know, you see. I know all about you and her, and how you have conspired against me. I will not be crossed, and I will not lose what is mine. Do you understand?"

Bon Chance lifted himself up, cold fury settling into his eyes. "I believe I do, Mons Crawcour. But you should understand this - that if you cause harm to Madelaine with your jealousies and your suspicions, this entire ocean will not be large enough to conceal you from me. And I do not make idle threats - only promises."

Their eyes locked, the larger man trembling with anger; but it was Crawcour who looked away first, disconcerted by the cold certainty in his opponent’s gaze. He swore savagely and strode out, leaving Bon Chance to sink back into his chair and take several deep breaths to banish some of the adrenaline the confrontation had raised. It was several minutes before he followed Crawcour into the bar; by then the man had gone, angrily berating his crew as he pushed off in the Mahoi boat. Gushie looked up as the Frenchman descended from his office, winced at his expression, and hurriedly bent to his work. Bon Chance said nothing as he passed Cutter and Corky on his way out of the bar; he vanished up to his room for half an hour, then reappeared briefly in his riding gear. He saddled up Le Capitaine and was gone for most of the afternoon. Cutter, wisely he thought, refrained from making any enquiry into the matter, even though the normally meticulous Magistrate missed several appointments as a result of his vanishing act.

By the morning, Bon Chance appeared to have regained his normal equilibrium, and nobody gave the matter much further thought.

* * *

Until, that is, three weeks had passed. Cutter returned that afternoon from a short hop delivering a desperately needed part for a generator, and left Corky topping up the gas tank of the _Goose_ while he wandered up to the hotel. He smiled vaguely at the villagers who were coming out of the building as he went in, and the youngest woman among them smothered a giggle with difficulty. Everyone knew that his abstracted manner was because Sarah was away on Tagataya for at least another week; common belief was that she had been swept away by a distant but wealthy relative who had insisted she keep him company while he pursued his business in the islands. Cutter knew that the ‘relative’ was none other than Uncle Sam, and that the business was likely to be dangerous, but the agent who had made contact had been unaware that Cutter knew anything about Sarah’s ‘other’ occupation and she had insisted he keep it that way. He had delivered her and her so-called cousin to a secluded cove on an island quite a long way distant from Tagataya, and left them there with vague misgivings about the whole affair. His concerns had been a little relieved by a cheery radio message she had sent only two days before - although he hadn’t spoken to her himself, Gushie insisted she sounded fine - but he wouldn’t stop worrying until she returned in person.

He sauntered into the main bar, his hat pushed back and his face set into morose lines. Jack ran ahead and huffed at Gushie’s chair, turning its occupier’s head in his direction. The look that crossed the man’s face was one of welcome relief. "Jake - thank god you’re back."

Cutter crossed the remaining distance in short strides, aware that something was afoot. "What’s up?" he asked, glancing around in case he could identify anything out of the ordinary in his immediate vicinity. Nothing seemed out of place or even disturbed, which made Gushie’s worried expression even more alarming. Vague concerns flitted through the pilot’s mind, from the immediate thought that something terrible might have happened to Sarah through to the dismissive chance that the generator might have blown again and Corky be in demand because of it. Gushie’s next words drove all of those straight out of his mind.

"It’s Madelaine," his friend announced worriedly. "Something’s happened on Mahoi. We got a call about half an hour back - she sounded hysterical."

"Does Louie know?"

Gushie nodded. "He took the call. I think it shook him pretty badly, Jake \- she seemed absolutely terrified. He tried to calm her, but ... hell, a radio’s no way to help a lady in distress. She was sobbing, and then the signal went dead. We couldn’t raise the island at all."

"Where is he?"

"Up in the office, checking the contents of his medical bag. He said to let him know as soon as you got back."

Cutter nodded. "No sooner said than done." He bounded up the short flight of stairs and threw open the office door without bothering to knock. "Taxi to Mahoi," he announced briskly.

Bon Chance was sat at his desk, his head resting in his hands. He looked up as the door opened, his face written with a deep anxiety that not even the smile he found for the pilot could quite dispel. "What kept you?" he demanded, rising to his feet and lifting the black bag off the corner of the desk. It was half joke, half serious question, and Cutter realised that having to wait had not been an easy thing to do, even for a man who had more patience than most.

"Madam Fenarin’s chocolate cake," he admitted, considering honest was probably best in the circumstances.

Bon Chance threw him a startled look, then frowned with exasperation. "You weren’t to know," he sighed, striding past the pilot and starting down the stairs. Cutter followed him with equal haste. "How long to Mahoi in the _Goose_ , mon ami?"

"Just under an hour if the wind is right. You really think it’s that urgent?"

The Frenchman paused in his stride to turn back and consider his companion with haunted eyes. "You did not hear her." His face settled into taut anxiety. "Something - malignant has been growing on Mahoi for months, and I think perhaps I should have take action over it sooner. An hour may be too late, but it will have to do." He shook his head and strode out of the bar, leaving Cutter to exchange a glance with Gushie before he lengthened his stride to follow. The man in the wheelchair grimaced worriedly and went back to work, polishing at a table with unnecessary vehemence.

Jack reached the jetty first, startling Corky, who had just settled down for a doze by the pumps. He looked even more startled as the white-clad Frenchman bore down on him, followed by the pilot, who was busy indicating he should start the engines. The mechanic hurried to obey, grabbing at his cap as he scurried for the nose hatch, and scooping Jack up to dump him into the plane ahead of himself.

"Are we fuelled?" Cutter demanded as he unhitched the rear tether and tossed it aboard. Corky leaned out of the side window and nodded with confusion.

"Ah, yeah - but we only just got here. Where are we going?"

"Mahoi," Bon Chance told him coldly from the interior of the cabin. The mechanic turned round to protest, his words dying as he saw the look on the Frenchman’s face.

"R-right," Corky registered, along with Jack’s two sharp barks. He went back to powering up the engines, shifting across to the co-pilot’s seat as Cutter appeared in the cockpit. "Mahoi?" he mouthed at his fellow American, who dug into his pocket for the unlit end of a cheroot and clamped it between his lips.

"Tell ya when we’re in the air," Cutter growled, adjusting the throttles to balance the sound of the engines and turning the plane’s nose out to sea. Jack pattered back to crouch on the parachute and the Frenchman dropped into the nearest cabin seat, tipping his head back and clenching his fists on his lap. The pilot gunned the throttles, and then they were aloft, headed for Mahoi and whatever might await them there.


	3. Chapter 3

The island seemed oddly deserted, the usual smoke and steam from the cannery absent and the workers’ houses shuttered and silent. Cutter put the _Goose_ down in the bay, looking around in some confusion. No-one came to greet them at the dock, and Corky had to scramble out of the nose hatch to secure the plane. Bon Chance stepped cautiously onto the jetty and frowned. A dog was rooting around a pile of abandoned boxes, but it scampered away when Jack trotted across to say hello. Cutter followed the Frenchman onto the island with equal caution. The entire place felt as if it were about to explode.

"Wait with the _Goose_ ," Bon Chance ordered Corky quietly, drawing a wary nod from the burly mechanic. "Bring my bag if I send Jack for it."

Pilot and Magistrate walked up the shallow steps towards the main house with the distinct impression that a thousand eyes were fixed on their shoulders. A curtain twitched in one of the smaller buildings and a door creaked, drawing Cutter'’ attention with anxious alarm. He shivered, sensing the tension that filled the air, the sense of expectation and fear that whispered around them. "I don’t like this," he muttered, eliciting a look of agreement from his company.

Bon Chance reached down and unclipped the strap that restrained his revolver, his fingers slipping the safety free with practised ease. The pilot registered the gesture and followed suit, licking his lips as his mouth went dry. Ahead of him the Frenchman put out his hand and pushed at the main door of the house. It opened easily.

A noise behind them spun them both, two loaded guns focusing on the alarmed figure that had crept to join them: a worker, frozen in startled fear. The two men exchanged a glance and then Bon Chance lowered his revolver and slid it back into its holster. "Well?" he asked, his expression demanding the required explanation. The native worker swallowed hard, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting all hell to let loose any moment.

"It’s not safe here," the man said anxiously. "You shouldn’t have come. Go, now. He’ll be back any moment."

"Crawcour?" the Frenchman queried as if it confirmed all his suspicions. The man nodded uneasily. "What has happened?" Cutter let loose a tight breath and lowered his own weapon, turning to cast a vigilant eye over the open space around them. 

The worker echoed the pilot’s glance, his face nervous and uncomfortable. "Mons Crawcour - he likes to drink. That is all. It makes him angry. He takes his gun and ... go. It will pass; it has before. There is no reasoning with him while the drink is in his blood. But he only hurts those who get in his way. Those who ..." He caught back his words as if he had said too much, stepping back with fearful steps. "Leave - or hide," he pleaded. "Don’t let him see you." He turned and ran, seeking the safety of the nearest building and slamming the door firmly behind him. The two men exchanged a grim glance.

"Those who ... what?" Cutter asked suspiciously.

Bon Chance’s expression dropped into anxious comprehension. "Madelaine" he realised bleakly. He turned and strode into the house. Cutter paused to jerk his head at Jack and the dog pattered through the doorway, his ears alert and his nose darting from side to side. The pilot followed slowly, taking frequent glances over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure exactly what might happen, but whatever Crawcour was up to it was bad enough to keep an entire island’s population behind closed doors.

The interior of the house was quiet as the grave. A number of doors led off the reception hall, one a corridor that led towards the guest wing. That was an unlikely place to look; while Jack nosed around the polished floor, Bon Chance chose an archway that would take him further into the depths of the building and Cutter paused to glance into the nearest sideroom. Within, the remains of a radio lay scattered across the floor, its carcass torn from its mountings by considerable force. The pilot winced and moved on.

Jack whuffed with decision and ran after the Frenchman, catching up to lead the way into an airy lounge area. Open French windows revealed a view of the bay beyond a filmy curtaining of net which billowed lightly in the breeze. The dog ran forward and scraped at a closed door, whining a little as he did so. Bon Chance glanced once at the patio behind the curtaining, then strode across to open the door that had drawn the dog’s attention.

Madelaine sat huddled on the edge of her low bed, rocking backwards and forwards in undirected distress. She looked up as the door opened, her eyes written with anxious fear. It gave way to almost tangible relief as she recognised the figure that awaited her. "Louie? Oh, Louie ..." She levered her swollen body upright and went to him, moving in what would have been a desperate run had she not been so ungainly. He met her halfway, wrapping her in his arms with reassuring strength. She clung to him, weeping and shaking with reaction. _"I’m so afraid ..."_

_"Ssh,"_ he quietened her, stroking her hair and cradling her gently. His eyes were grim but he let none of the anger that boiled inside him reach his voice. _"It’s all right now. Everything is going to be all right."_

"Non," she breathed, the sound almost a moan. _"You shouldn’t have come. He’s going to kill you. He told me he would. He made me call you ... you have to go. Go, now!"_

_"We will,"_ he promised, guiding her towards the door as he spoke. _"Jack brought me. We can leave in the Goose, straight away."_

Cutter appeared in the doorway as he said it, confirming the statement with an anxious grin. "Did you find ...?" His expression deepened into tight horror. "Oh, my god." His reaction was understandable - even half hidden in the Frenchman’s arms, Madelaine’s condition was undisguisable. Her face and arms were patterned with bruises; a swollen lip and a vicious cut above her eye added to the picture of her distress. Her hair was lank and uncombed and she was wrapped in no more than a simple shift, its fabric stained and torn. The pilot stared at the two of them in incomprehension, finding his friend’s expression carved from granite and ice. "Did he ...? The bastard!" Cutter exclaimed, visibly shaken. "Is she all right?"

Bon Chance shook his head in quiet denial. "We are leaving, Jake. Madelaine cannot stay here any longer."

Jack barked in sudden alarm. Cutter turned, alerted by it, but only had time to raise one arm in a futile gesture of protection before the full weight of a bamboo and cane chair impacted against him. He tumbled in through the doorway, splintered wood accompanying his fall, rolled over once with a groan and then lay still, blood beginning to ooze from his temple. Madelaine gave a small cry of terror and buried her face in her companion’s shoulder. Gerald Crawcour stood framed in the doorway, his eyes wild and the menacing length of a shotgun resting easily in one hand.

Bon Chance had dropped his own hand towards the butt of his revolver, but he was hampered by the woman’s desperate hold on him. His eyes locked with those of the enraged figure in the doorway and, very carefully, he drew the gun from its holster with his fingertips and tossed it away onto the bed.

"That was sensible," Crawcour growled, a sneer creeping onto his face as he realised he had the upper hand. He stepped forward over the unconscious pilot and stared at the tableaux of his pregnant wife clinging to another man. Jack growled unhappily and crept round to nose at his master. Cutter didn’t move, and Crawcour ignored both of them.

"How touching," he drawling derisively. "The bitch and her besotted lover - come to spirit her away from me, Bon Chance? Come to steal her, the way you’ve stolen everything else on this island?" There was a slur in his angry words that betrayed his state far better than the scent of whisky that he had brought with him. His eyes held no hint of reason - just an irrational fury that challenged argument and threatened undirected violence.

Bon Chance’s own anger was under tighter control. It smouldered coldly behind his eyes and set his expression into calculated lines of stone. Had he truly been caught en flagrante by a cuckolded husband (a situation he had generally managed to avoid, on the whole) he might have counted on reason and rapid dissemblance to come to his aid; but the present situation didn’t fit that particular picture at all, no matter how Crawcour might wish it to. He wasn’t even certain that the man deserved an answer to his lurid accusation, so great was the contempt that he felt for him at that moment. The unstable gleam in his accuser'’ eyes, coupled with the highly lethal length of the gun, indicated that he react with caution. His concern wasn’t for himself so much as for the other lives that his actions would affect - for Cutter, sprawled wounded and defenceless at the madman’s feet; for Madelaine, clinging to him with abject terror - and for her child, the most vulnerable of them all.

"Let her be, Crawcour," he sad softly. "Surely you have hurt her enough." Madelaine’s anxious grip tightened at his words. She was weeping silently, too distraught to stop.

"She won’t learn," her husband growled. "She defies me. Deceives me. She’s a cruel and wanton woman, without respect, without shame. She is my wife, and I will treat her as I see fit!" He took another step forward and Madelaine shrank behind her protector with a frightened gasp.

"You have no right," Bon Chance said tightly, biting back his anger with difficulty. "No right to abuse her; no right to even threaten her, let alone the child she carries."

"No right?" Crawcour was a tower of rage. "She’s my wife! And she will obey me. Will submit to me, whether she likes it or not. As for you ..." The muzzle of the gun swung up to hover menacingly inches from its intended victim’s stomach. "You have encouraged her from the beginning. You have conspired with her to deny me this estate and you accepted from her what was rightfully mine. Did you laugh about me, Bon Chance? While she made love to you, did you mock me? Did you?" Each question jabbed the gun forward, forcing the pair of them backwards a step at a time.

"Madelaine has been faithful to you, Crawcour," Bon Chance responded tightly. "She has kept her vow to honour you - which is more than you have done."

"Liar!" the man hissed. "I know. I know all about it, and no-one will condemn me when I act to preserve my tarnished honour. She’s my wife. She’s mine. Who will blame me if I strike down her lover when I find them together? When he was going to take her from me?" Behind him, Cutter was stirring groggily, responding to Jack’s insistent attentions.

"A crime of passion is still accounted as a crime," Bon Chance pointed out, his voice cold. He was trying to push Madelaine away from him, to get her away from the line of the gun and, after brief bewilderment, she let go to step cautiously aside. "The French court takes murder very seriously. You would go to the guillotine \- or worse. Jealousy has taken too many men to fester in the penal colonies. You would not like it there, I can assure you."

"Don’t try sweet words on me." Crawcour was contemptuous. "You won’t talk yourself out of this. Madelaine will support me. Won’t you, Madelaine?" There was violent threat in that appeal, a threat that tightened the cold knot of fury in Bon Chance’s heart. Madelaine glanced from one man to the other and back again.

"Please, Gerald," she pleaded. "Listen to him. I have been true, I swear it. Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want me to ..."

"Whore!" Crawcour’s hand went out, striking his wife across the face and sending her spinning onto the bed. "Scarlet woman! Repent your sinning and don’t plead for the devil that led you astray!"

It was enough. Anger ignited white hot behind Bon Chance’s eyes. His hand snaked out, turning aside the muzzle of the gun and he moved like lightning, twisting so that the heel of his other palm slammed full force into his opponent’s stomach. The gun went off. Crawcour doubled over, then came up with a roar. He let the gun tumble from his grip and launched himself forward, driving his whole weight at his opponent; they went backwards together, the older man’s shoulders impacting against the wall with an audible crack.

It was not an honourable contest, but a desperate struggle in which fingers clawed and knees and elbows were used to strike with full force. Bon Chance had the advantage of speed and co-ordination, his opponent depending on sheer strength and weight; had the burly surveyor not been so drunk as to ignore the simple matter of pain the fight might have been over in short seconds. As it was, the first impact of directed violence, normally counted on to at least wind if not disable an opponent, failed to do more than enrage the already berserk man. Calculated skill gave way to desperation as Crawcour pressed home his advantage of size.

A twist of shoulders that redirected pressure into sideways movement gave the smaller man a momentary breathing space; the surveyor slammed his own bulk into the wall. He came back madder than ever, toppling the two of them straight through a small table that splintered under the impact. Bon Chance rolled as they went down, trying to avoid being pinned under his opponent’s weight; they tumbled over several times, neither gaining benefit of grip or leverage. Somewhere, Jack was barking wildly.

Bruised and not a little disorientated, Bon Chance focused his attention on the need to conclude matters as quickly as he could. One hand sought Crawcour’s throat, tightening there with deliberate pressure; the other held off the clawing hand that reached for his eyes. The surveyor grunted angrily, twisting over so that his full weight pressed down to imprison his opponent. His knee jerked up and then twisted, grinding into the smaller man’s groin and stomach. The pain was unmistakably savage and sent its victim’s head spinning. His grip relaxed involuntarily, allowing Crawcour to pin his arm and shoulder to the floor. The surveyor pushed aside his other hand and rammed his forearm up under his rival’s chin. He paused for a moment’s grin of victory, then pressed down with murderous intent.

The world spun, even as Bon Chance struggled to be free. He could not breath, could not escape the merciless grip. Distantly he heard thunder over the roaring in his ears, then, somehow, the pressure at his throat was gone and Crawcour was no more than a limp weight lying over him. He lay dazed for a moment, the event not making sense, his vision swimming. Somewhere he found the strength to lever the slack body away, and lift himself up a little groggily. Madelaine was staring at him, her swollen body hunched on the bed, the still smoking revolver in her hands.

* * *

"Oh my god." On the far side of the room, Cutter had crawled unsteadily to his feet. He was leaning in the doorframe, one hand tentatively raised to the trickle of blood that stained his temple, and he was staring with bleary bemusement at the sight in front of him. "Louie? Are you okay?"

Bon Chance glanced from Madelaine’s shocked expression to his friend’s wounded face and then back again before easing himself carefully from the floor. He was labouring a little for breath, but he pushed consideration of his own abuses to one side in order to deal with more important matters. Carefully, he reached out and removed his revolver from the woman’s nerveless fingers. "I will live, mon ami. What of you?"

The pilot shook his head n an attempt to clear his vision, then obviously regretted the action. "I think I might be okay once I stop seeing double. Is he ...?"

"Dead? Oui. Quite efficiently." He had put the gun to once side and placed his hand gently over Madelaine’s quivering shoulder. With the other he careful turned her dazed eyes towards him and away from the sprawled corpse on the floor. "Madelaine?" he questioned softly.

Her gaze focused slowly and then she seemed to come back to herself in a rush. She gasped and collapsed into his arms, where she shook uncontrollably. "Mon dieu," she managed. _"I didn’t know what else to do. I thought he was going to kill you ..."_

"Ssh," he comforted her. _"It is over. You are safe now. He cannot hurt you any more."_ She clung to him, and he disentangled himself reluctantly. "Madelaine," he murmured, _"I am not going to leave you. But Jake is hurt, and I must see ..."_

She nodded, gulping in desperate breaths to steady herself before huddling back onto the support of the bed. His hand lingered on her shoulder a moment longer, then he turned and limped across the room. Cutter watched him come, the pilot’s face stark white and his body swaying despite his efforts to remain upright.

"Mon dieu," the Frenchman considered as he reached him. "You must sit down."

The American’s lips quirked into a distant smile. "What on? He used the chair to brain me!"

The frown that creased Bon Chance’s features was one of affectionate exasperation. He caught the pilot’s shoulder and guided him to the padded sofa in the outer room. The damage was tender and Cutter winced as careful fingers considered the extent of it. "I do not think he has managed to crack that stubborn skull of yours, mon ami, but even so you have been badly concussed. You must rest and do nothing for a while."

"Sounds good to me," Cutter breathed, letting himself be settled into the cushions without protest. "Is Madelaine going to be okay?"

The Frenchman’s eyes were bleak. "I do not know. She has been badly treated, and ..." A gasp from the other room interrupted him. He paused only to halt Cutter’s own instinctive reaction to that cry before he turned and ran, back to the huddled woman and her frightened eyes.

"The baby," she moaned, her hands curling protectively over her swollen stomach. "I think the baby is coming ..."

* * *

If anyone had ever thought to doubt Bon Chance’s ability to respond to a crisis, they would have had no cause to question it on this particular occasion. The gasped announcement, a terrified cry for help that added to the pressing needs of the situation, sent him into an efficient overdrive that firmly negated any possibility of his even considering his own minor discomforts. He confirmed Madelaine’s suspicion of her condition with a rapid examination, determining that, while imminent, the child’s demanding entry to the world was not about to happen in the next few minutes. He reassured her gently, making sure she was as comfortable as he could make her, before striding to the front of the house to issue rapid orders to the workers and their women who had been drawn there by the sound of gunfire.

Within what seemed a remarkably short space of time, the corpse of Gerald Crawcour had been removed and Cutter was settled into a guest room bed. The pilot protested a little at the attention, but more from habit than intent. Corky hovered anxiously beside him, cradling Jack in his arms; Bon Chance left the mechanic to take care of their mutual friend and returned to more pressing matters in the master bedroom. On his way there he summoned hot water, clean sheets and the local midwife - finding when he did so that there was one, but she was three islands away and unlikely to return before morning. He greeted the news with a resigned sigh and asked for a volunteer instead, his request being answered by a young woman who was engaged as one of Madelaine’s housemaids. The Frenchman eyed her archly and, seeing she met the intimidating look with one of determination, nodded his approval of the choice. He sent her to organise the hot water and returned to his patient as swiftly as he could.

She had been quivering with anxiety when he returned, but some of the tension slipped away from her as he came to sit on the edge of the bed. She endured the professional attention he paid to her pulse, then caught tightly at his hand as yet another contraction shuddered through her. He did not protest the imposition but reached to stroke her cheek with the gentlest of touches; after a while she relaxed a little further and some of the fear went out of her eyes.

When the promised water arrived, he sent the maid for a number of other things they would need; outside, dusk was beginning to gather and he disentangled himself from Madelaine’s grip to draw the curtains and light the lamps. Once that was done he fetched the shallow bowl and flannel from the dresser and poured out a measure of water from the jug, bringing it all back to the bedside table. She made no protest as he bent to gently clean the battered lines of her face, but she caught at his hands as they moved down to the fastening of her dress.

_"Don’t,"_ she begged him. _"There’s no need ..."_

_"Who is the doctor, and whom the patient?"_ he asked firmly, backing the question with a wry smile. She held his hands a moment longer, then let her grip fall away.

_"You’re not a doctor at all,"_ she pouted, then began to cry.

"Oh, Madelaine." He abandoned the flannel in the bowl and gathered her up instead, feeling the sobs wrack through her. She clung to him with distraught desperation. _"It is all right. Everything will be all right."_

_"Non,"_ she moaned. _"It’s not right. It can’t be. He made me bring you here. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised ... I can still feel his hands ... he threatened to hurt the baby ..."_

He held her closer, rocking her a little to convey comfort while he grimaced a moment of anger at the indifferent ceiling. _"It is over, Madelaine. He cannot hurt you any more. Forget him. Think of what you carry. Of the innocence you bring into the world."_

_"I was a fool,"_ she sobbed into his shoulder. _"I’ve destroyed everything. I gave him all my trust ... brought him into this bed ... Paul’s bed. And for that he - mon dieu, I feel so filthy, inside. How can you even bear to touch me?"_

His hold on her tightened instinctively at the question. _"Don’t be so foolish, ma cherie. You are not responsible for his madness. You are his victim, not what he accused you of. Let him go."_

_"I’m afraid,"_ she admitted brokenly. She looked up at the pattern of bruising that was beginning to purple his face and her hand slid up to brush his cheek with exaggerated care. _"He hurt you too, didn’t he?"_ she breathed, guilt heavy in her voice. _"You never hurt me, Louie. Never. I used you. I used you and I was too ashamed of my own need to bring you here while I did so. But you understood. You never wanted more than I could give you. I tried to do all the right things, didn’t I? I thought Gerald cared for me. I shared Paul’s bed with him, where I never dared to bring you - and he betrayed me when you never had."_ She drew in a gasp as yet another contraction shivered through her. _"I was so wrong. How can I face this child, knowing what I did was so wrong?"_

"Ssh." He stroked the tumble of hair from her eyes, then leant to kiss her, a light butterfly of lips that brushed forehead and either cheek, a reassurance more sincere than any words might have been. _"Don’t lie to yourself, Madelaine. You are too beautiful and precious for that. You made a mistake, that is all. You were fooled by his facade. We were all fooled by it. But it is over. Finished. You are about to bring a new life into this world \- an innocent life, untouched by what has been. The most beautiful thing a woman can ever do. You have always been a loving mother; you can be strong, I know you can."_

The serving girl chose that moment to make her reappearance carrying a loaded tray; she looked a little taken aback by the way her mistress clung so tightly to her companion. Bon Chance glanced over his shoulder, recognising the concern on the native woman’s face. "Leave it," he requested gently. "I will call you when I need you."

She nodded anxiously, laying the tray on the table, then left, looking back as she did so. The Frenchman waited until the door closed again before he gently lowered his charge back to the bed.

_"I don’t know how to be strong any more,"_ Madelaine said plaintively. _"I’m so afraid. What if he has hurt what I carry? What if I am to destroy that, too?"_

_"Your fear will not help, cherie,"_ he advised her sympathetically. _"Put it away from you - it has no place in your heart."_ He carefully completed the unfastening of her buttons so that he could ease the shapeless shift from her form. Beneath it she was completely naked, her body marked as badly as her face, only her swollen belly unblemished in the dim electric light. His eyes tightened with inner anger but he did not let it into either his expression or his voice. _"You must want this child more than anything in your whole life."_ There was doubt in his mind as he said it - how could she want this baby when it was the child of a man who had done so badly by her?

_"Oh, I do,"_ she breathed with unexpected certainty. _"More than anything, now."_

He bathed her gently, making each soft motion of his hand as much caress as it was purposeful. She made no complaint at it, simply enduring each shiver of pain as it came and went, the bitter reminders of abuse overwhelmed by the inner protests of imminent labour. When he had finished, he draped her in clean cotton and helped her to take some tablets he extracted from his medical supplies. He hoped they would be enough to help her relax and face what was to come, not daring to offer her anything stronger. When she pushed away the empty glass, he refilled it with the wine he had requested and took a long, deep swallow \- it was going to be a long night.

* * *

He sat with her for all the hours it took, wiping the sweat from her body and reassuring her with murmured words and gentle touches. She was not new to this painful process of labour, but she was weak and unsettled, shifting her body as discomfort claimed her and weeping tears that had no reason behind them. When she needed to stand, or walk, he was there to support her; and when the worst of it began, he was there to hold her as she was consumed by the effort and the pain. Despite that, despite the fire of the child’s birth - or perhaps even because of it - each hour that passed seemed to strengthen her will and determination. It was as if the pain that she endured was somehow a penance for the fault she saw in herself, burning away her guilt to leave only an overwhelming desire not to fail her child the way she had failed herself. In the end it was Paul’s name she carried on her lips; she spoke of him softly, begging forgiveness and reaffirming her love.

It was not an easy birth. Madelaine screamed and swore as she fought to expel the child. But she was in confident hands and eventually she lay exhausted, listening to the first cry of her new-born son as he struggled for breath. Bon Chance lifted the baby, still with its cord intact, and laid it, bloody and struggling, to her breast. The child was small but perfectly formed, and it relaxed against its mother’s warmth with a quiet gurgle of relief.

_"Congratulations,"_ he told her with a tired smile. _"It’s a boy."_

_"I know."_ Her own smile was radiant as she wrapped protective arms over her precious burden. _"Who taught you to be such a good midwife?"_

_"Necessity,"_ he answered, tying off the child’s cord and sending the servant girl to dispose of the afterbirth. _"And a lot of practice with horses. They don’t scream so much,"_ he added, looking down at the mother and her son with genuine pleasure at the sight.

She laughed softly, then sighed. _"Oh, mon dieu, but I must be a sight."_

He shook his head, bending to kiss her forehead and then, almost as an afterthought, that of the child. _"Right now,"_ he decided softly, _"you are one of the most beautiful women in the world."_

She caught at his hand and held it very tightly. _"Thank you,"_ she said. _"Thank you - for everything. I will be all right now."_

_"I know."_ He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his eyes held by the miracle she cradled in her arms. _"We must get you and this young man of yours cleaned up and settled for some sleep. You need it."_

_"So do you,"_ she answered wearily. _"Will we leave tomorrow?"_

_"Leave?"_ He was thrown by the question, since it made no sense for her to ask it.

_"Leave. Surely you will have to take me somewhere when you arrest me."_

_"Arrest ... Madelaine, what are you talking about? Why ever would I have to do that?"_

She closed her eyes, letting her hold on his hand slip away. _"Because I killed my husband. You said yourself that a crime of passion was still a crime."_

He stared at her in total disbelief for a moment, then began to laugh. "Oh, Madelaine," he chuckled, bending over to kiss her affectionately on the cheek. _"Gerald Crawcour was killed while attempting to commit a murder \- and the murder of an official of the French government in the pursuit of his duty, at that. Probably while resisting arrest,"_ he considered, turning the thought over in his mind. _"He was guilty of assault and threatening behaviour, not to mention the possibility of conspiring to defraud ..."_

She stopped him with the brush of her hand. _"Is that how you will make your report?"_

_"That,"_ he announced firmly, _"is how it was. There will be no charges, I can assure you. Mon dieu,"_ he went on, _"a pregnant woman, terrified half out of her wits, reacting to stop a madman from completing his murderous aims ..."_ He shook his head at the recollection. _"He struck Jake without provocation, and he would most certainly have killed me given the chance. There may have to be a hearing,"_ he decided thoughtfully, _"but you will not have to be there unless you feel up to it."_

Madelaine relaxed back into the pillows, lifting one hand from her son to brush the bruised cheek of the man at her side. _"Are you all right?"_ she asked, a hint of guilt creeping back into her voice as she realised that no-one had expressed that concern until now. He laughed, stifling a yawn as he did so.

"Madelaine," he assured her, _"like you, I am bruised, battered, and unbowed. But I am in need of sleep, which is what I am going to look for as soon as you are sorted and I have looked in on my other patient."_ He glanced up, hearing the servant girl return, and got to his feet so as to assist with the bundle of towels and other things she had brought.

_"Thank Jake for me,"_ Madelaine requested, relinquishing her still bloodied son into the Frenchman’s care with reluctance.

_"I will. But you will be able to do that for yourself soon. He may not be fit to fly in the morning, but ... even if he is, I could still stay for a while, if you wish?"_

_"No."_ Her answer was too quick, too certain. _"Rather \- I would like that very much. But you must not. Otherwise it might be said that his accusations were true."_

He paused to look back at her, the child quiet in his arms. _"I will do whatever you ask of me, Madelaine. But you must ask - if you have need of me."_

_"I will,"_ she promised quietly.

_"Now then, non petite,"_ Bon Chance said in brighter tones, addressing himself to the baby. _"Let us turn you into a human being, n’est ce pas? What should I call you, then?"_

"Paul," Madelaine said sleepily as the native girl bent to clean the blood from her breasts. "Paul - Louie - Belvoir," she added, with measured emphasis on the final name of the three.

Bon Chance smiled down on the child with wry sympathy. _"I am honoured,"_ he said, lowering his new namesake into the waiting warmth of water. The child’s hands, like tiny starfish, grasped at his fingers, and wide dark eyes stared up at him with innocent trust. It was moments like this, the Frenchman considered wonderingly to himself, that made all the rest worthwhile.

* * *

The _Goose_ returned to Boragora the following day with Corky at the controls and its pilot reduced to being a passenger for a change. Cutter had been introduced to the newest member of the Belvoir family before he left, Madelaine insisting in rousing herself to see them off, despite the frown Bon Chance found for her at the idea. The baby had been cooed over by the two Americans, both men overjoyed at the suggestion that they might care to act as godfathers to the child. The Frenchman had gone to fetch Father Doncleur, finding the man greatly relieved that Crawcour’s tyranny was finally over. The priest agreed to christen the child as requested, and departure was delayed while the little ceremony was conducted. Practically the entire island stood witness to it, which was more than could be said for Crawcour’s funeral. Madelaine refused to consider burying him on Mahoi and men were dispatched to take him to Tagataya by boat, buried in ice from the factory and spat upon by several of the natives employed for the job.

Bon Chance had made no comment over either decision, only pausing for a brief word with the estate overseers before they returned to work. He was limping even more than he had been the night before, the result of abused muscles reacting to a few bare hours of rest, but he concealed it well enough from both Madelaine and from Cutter, who therefore assumed that he had suffered few ill effects from the conflict the day before.

Back at the Monkey Bar, Gushie was waiting with anxiety and a request from Sarah to be collected at once. Cutter shook off the last of his headache and set off immediately, giving Corky cause to mutter about never having time to think. Jack barked an easy agreement to this, but pattered aboard the plane all the same. Bon Chance watched them go with a sigh, knowing only too well that Cutter would hear none of his good advice about looking out for himself and remembering the long term effects of concussion. Gushie heard the sigh, then noticed the bruises and frowned. He knew perfectly well that he was going to have to wait for Jake’s return before he heard more than the bare bones of the story and had to satisfy himself with the succinct report on Madelaine’s health that his associate felt willing to impart. He waited until the Frenchman had limped up to his room to change, then went to prepare a pot of steaming chocolate. It was waiting behind the bar when Bon Chance came down again, and he helped himself without comment, but the look he threw in his friend’s direction was both grateful and affectionate.

Gushie merely grinned to himself and wheeled back to work.

* * *

A month later the boat from Mahoi arrived at Boragora dock, disgorging several natives and Madelaine, her son cradled firmly in her arms. Cutter saw her arrive and dragged Corky off the wing of the _Goose_ so as to go and greet her. Sarah beat them both to it, hugging Madelaine and then shyly asking to hold the child. Much to everyone’s surprise his mother happily agreed, placing the boy in their care while she attended to her business. Sarah was left with a broad grin on her face and the baby on her lap in the bar while Gushie went off in search of milk and Corky dangled a piece of string for the child to snatch at. Cutter was just as delighted at the turn of events; he watched Madelaine climb the short flight of stairs to the office and realised how well she looked. It was just as if the intervening months had never happened.

Inside the office, Bon Chance was immersed in colonial legislation, frowning over obscure phraseology. He didn’t even look up as the door opened, muttering something about dealing with matters later if it wasn’t something urgent. His visitor walked softly to his side and giggled at his concentrated frown. The sound made him turn; then he was on his feet and embracing her with delight.

"Madelaine," he laughed, holding her shoulders and studying her carefully, _"this time you come to my rescue, n’est ce pas? You are looking well."_

"Merci,"she smiled, returning his greeting with a warm kiss on either cheek. _"So are you. What am I rescuing you from?"_

_"Tedium,"_ he announced, waving her to a chair and regarding her with pleasure. _"Something you manage to do with welcome regularity. How are you? And your daughters? And your son?"_ he added, a little warily.

She laughed at the questions, laying the inevitable ledgers on the desk. _"I am fine,"_ she said brightly. _"Jeanette and Ellen are well - and Paul thrives like a fat duck in a barrelful of corn."_

He grinned, returning to his chair. _"He is a handful, then?"_ he suggested warmly, relieved to get such a positive response.

_"What new-born child is not?"_ Her expression was radiant, her delight in her child obvious to any observer. _"He keeps me awake at night, he deafens the servants, and he can be heard clear to the cannery and back."_

_"Crying?"_ Bon Chance’s tone expressed concern, and she shook her head with amusement.

_"Laughing,"_ she corrected with a grin. _"He fills Mahoi with laughter. His - and my own,"_ she added softly, the barest hint of past trauma surfacing in her eyes. _"I would always have it so."_

He smiled, reaching over to enfold her hand with his own. _"A worthy ambition - for a worthy woman."_

She chuckled, laying her free hand over his grip. _"Away with all your flattery, Bon Chance,_ " she chided. _"It will not sway me on matters of business."_

_"I hope not,"_ he acknowledged warmly. _"Just so long as you want for nothing."_

She considered him carefully, then blushed a little, understand what he might be prepared to offer should she ask it. _"Nothing,"_ she decided, although there was a clear reluctance to make it so final. _"There is nothing I need. I have my friends, I have my daughters - and I have my son, who makes me whole. Sometimes I think that, perhaps, he was all I ever needed."_

Bon Chance studied her, a shrewd look in his eyes. _"Perhaps you are right,"_ he said after a moment. _"But if you ever need anything ..."_

_"I only have to ask,"_ she smiled. _"I know. But right now, all I want is an approval on my expenditures. I have contracts to fill, you know?"_

He grinned and reached for the ledgers. _"Of course,"_ he said. _"I recall co-signing the agreements."_

They worked for an hour, finding an unspoken pleasure in the return to their comfortable arrangement. They made no effort to discuss past events, nor did they wish to. Madelaine's mind was turned firmly towards the future, and she worked as if the interruption of her marriage had never happened. Perhaps, he considered as he paused to digest the implications of one particular matter, she had buried it as deeply as the man responsible for her brief unhappiness. He doubted that she would ever trust another man in her life again, nor would he blame her for such a reaction. He understood only too well what it felt like to be betrayed. From that his mind drifted to consider the results of that particular event and the loss of the daughter he had known only so briefly in her life. For that he envied Madelaine, whose children were now the most precious things she possessed.

She made no comment on his sudden introspection, but packed the ledgers away very carefully. _"You will come for the inspection next month?"_ she asked, and he nodded, bringing his mind back to present matters.

_"Of course. I will look forward to it - and to seeing your son again."_

_"You don’t have to wait a month for that,"_ she smiled. _"I brought him with me. They are all spoiling him out there."_

* * *

Sarah was enthralled by the tiny bundle that she had been entrusted with. Paul Belvoir was the happiest baby she could ever remember seeing. He smiled constantly, gurgling with delight at the faces that Corky pulled for him. He smelled of sweet milk and perfumed powder and his skin was a perfect pink beside the white shawl he was bundled in. The singer looked up and smiled as his mother came down the stairs, Bon Chance her attentive escort. Madelaine’s blonde curls were an odd contrast to the dark strands that clung to her child’s skull. Paul would be a dark haired child, slender boned and not at all like the muscular Crawcour either in looks or build.

Gushie handed Madelaine a glass of wine as she came to join their little group. Cutter glanced at Bon Chance over the heads of their company and the Frenchman smiled back with a nod of reassurance. Madelaine was fine, and the message brought a grin of pleasure to the pilot’s face.

"He’s beautiful, Madelaine," Sarah decided. "Just beautiful. You don’t ... well, feel uncomfortable with him, do you?" Her question was tentative, her eyes fixed on the angelic face of the child in her arms. "What with his father and all ..."

Madelaine’s response was a firm shake of her head. "Paul’s father ..." She smiled a little wryly, taking a sip from the glass in her hand. "Always was, and always will be, a gentleman, to me. What came after was another matter entirely."

Sarah nodded understandingly, rocking the baby and going back to making faces at him. Beside her, Bon Chance glanced sharply over at Madelaine. An expression akin to startlement chased briefly over his eloquent features, a reaction that had Cutter grimacing with sympathy. The pilot’s conclusions were easy to comprehend, although totally erroneous. The Frenchman’s look had nothing to do with Gerald Crawcour, or even the recent events that had involved him. Instead, Madelaine’s words had sparked an echo of a memory that went back to the day when the whole matter might have been said to begin. The day she had announced her engagement, all those long months before. ‘You have always been a gentleman to me ...’ Her words might simply have been a coincidence, the matter of a turn of phrase, perhaps, but in that startled instant, he knew. The answer was so blindingly obvious that he wondered how he had managed to be so obtuse all this time. A number of minor puzzlements all clicked into place with that one realisation, throwing new light onto a great many things.

"Well," Sarah was saying brightly, "he doesn’t look a thing like ... you know ... does he?"

Bon Chance reached out a wary hand to stroke the child’s cheek. Chestnut brown eyes opened beneath their spill of dark hair and considered him with beguiling innocence. Unnoticed by any other of their company, Madelaine’s hand tightened around the stem of her glass and she bit warily at her bottom lip, as if aware she might have said one thing too many. The Frenchman glanced across at her, reading the sudden plea in her expression, the confirmation of the secret they now shared written clearly in her eyes. A tiny hand curled into his, trusting, gentle, undemanding, and his heart turned over in brilliant pain. He looked back at the child - at his son - and could not help the poignant twist that went with his smile.

"Non," he agreed softly, his heart screaming at him for what he had to do, for the propriety he must keep and the pain it might cost him for the rest of his life. "He is his mother’s son - no-one else’s."

Madelaine’s smile was painted with relief as she reached for her precious child. Sarah handed him over reluctantly. "I think he’s gorgeous," she was saying, quite unaware of the significance of the moment. "You’ll bring him back to see us as often as you can, won’t you?"

"Mais oui," Madelaine assured her, reaching over to buff Cutter’s cheek with warm familiarity. "How else can his godfathers spoil him?"

Cutter laughed, chucking the child under the chin. "You bet," he promised. He returned Madelaine’s kiss with affection. "What with me, Corky, Jack, and Louie over there, he’ll have more dads than he’ll know what to do with."

Bon Chance forced a laugh past the tightness of his throat. "Mon dieu, mon ami," he scolded softly, "that is the way rumours get started around here. Consider a lady’s reputation, n’est ce pas? Take care of yourself, Madelaine," he requested softly. She turned to embrace him with her free hand, planting a butterfly kiss on either cheek as she did so.

"Merci," she breathed, the word so soft it was little more than a sigh. "For everything."

He let her go, watching as she bid farewell to the rest of his company and walked out of his hotel, her son cradled against her; her son for now and forever. He knew how she had used him now, but somehow he felt no resentment for it. The secret they shared sat like a hot ember in his soul, warming despite the pain it might cost to keep it there.

Cutter found cause to wonder at the ironic smile Bon Chance wore as he turned back to the bar. "Profitable quarter?" he hazarded. The Frenchman threw him a strange look and then began to laugh.

"Oh, mon ami," he chucked, grinning at Gushie as he did so, "some days it is just good to be alive, n’est ce pas?" His hand drifted to stroke the curve of his neck and then he laughed again, shaking his head and reaching to start gathering up empty glasses. The pilot stared at him with a bemused smile.

"Now that’s what I like to see," Gushie remarked with a hint of satisfaction. "A man who’s content with the world."

"Mmm," Sarah agreed with a speculative gleam in her eye. "I wonder if now would be the right time to ask for the weekend off ..."

Bon Chance dropped his collection onto Gushie’s tray and fixed her with a hard stare. "With the _Santiago_ docking Saturday morning?" he enquired sweetly. Sarah’s face fell as he held the question between them for a heartbeat or two, then he relaxed his face into quiet amusement. "Of course," he went on to say, "that doesn’t mean I will need you to work Sunday and Monday as well ... I’m quite sure Jake will not mind delaying his trip to Tagataya for another twenty four hours. Will you, mon ami?"

Cutter glowered at him, having had every intention of dropping into a poker game he knew about on the Saturday, but the annoyance didn’t last long. "Sure," he decided. "Why not?" It would be fun to have Sarah along on the flight, and he could always arrange a hand or two of poker with the crew of the _Santiago._

"Thanks, Louie," Sarah grinned. "I appreciate it."

"I should think so," he noted a little archly, and then joined in the resultant laughter.

"A toast," Cutter proposed, lifting a half-empty glass from the bar beside him. "Life, weekends off ... and Madelaine. May she find all the joy in her son that she did not receive in her marriage."

"Amen to that," Gushie echoed. "Let’s hope he doesn’t take too much after his father."

And Bon Chance, with a somewhat wry grin at the idea, just _had_  to agree with him.


End file.
